


Minty Fresh

by catididnt



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hell is less prepared for him than humanity, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, the demon of small inconviences gets his revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22211797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catididnt/pseuds/catididnt
Summary: In which Crowley visits Hell to check up on things, offer a suggestion and give a gift (and smirk a lot).
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	Minty Fresh

As always, at least for six thousand years if not lately, Crowley took the front entrance to Hell. The building would still look as nice as ever to humans, all shiny, reflective glass. This would be the first time he descended the escalator as steps though, the physical ones chronically out-of-order while the spiritual ones hadn't functioned in, oh, a good decade or so. A bad decade, or so, for their respective offices, not that Crowley would check in in on the other office himself. Aziraphale'd not be climbing those once-motorized steps anytime in the next few centuries either. Before the steps broke, Crowley set a package up them, completely harmless and enough of a curiosity he'd known they'd opened it. The goose was still running loose.

Rather than the putrid rot of the masses, the refreshing mint welcomed him to Hell. He'd run into the herbal weed in the community garden Aziraphale insisted he care for and it ignored all his yelling. Rather than curse it out of existence, which he wasn't even sure would work, Crowley made a deal. A few, hardly necessary, biological changes and he released it into its new home. Every time the demons tore it up, they released more of the scent, and even the smallest root or stem started a whole new plant. That'd not been his trade with the particular plant entrenched in his garden. For the price of fully uprooting itself and giving up any further claim, he allowed it to sustain itself on the demonic energy of Hell. As a bonus, he increased the scent, just for fun.

Down the hallway, he didn't need to push through the mass of minty demons, they pressed themselves out of his way, hurriedly opening the way ahead and then huddling close, though not too close, behind. Amused before he descended, he allowed a snake's smug smile to reach his eyes and winked behind his glasses at random demons as he passed, inspiring small bouts of extra terror and suspicion.

The signs were gone, the glue dissolved or the paper disintegrated from the boiling water, no doubt, even as the scent of mint became overpowering, trod under boots and hooves. If anyone still had hooves. That'd really been more of a Pan-thing than a demon-thing.

"The traitor Crowley," Beelzebub hissed, their flies swirled about them. Dagon and Hastor stood behind them still, Dagon with a nasty cut over her eye, just shy of properly discorporating her, but Hastor was on his third body since Armageddon didn't, and it held up badly even for him. His frog far smaller now and his human eyes greasy gray rather than black. He lacked his rotting postulates as well, so the real flies, with real maggots to eat rotting flesh, and the flesh-eating beetles, which preferred dead flesh, had been doing their jobs down here as well. Hell was a smorgasbord for Earth’s bugs, and evolved with predators far more inventive than demons to stop them.

"Hey," Crowley replied, raising a hand. The majority of the demons hissed and drew back, both Dagon and Hastor flinched, and even Beelzebub winced at the movement. On his other wrist, his hand stuffed in a pocket barely big enough for fingers, swung a plastic bag with a smilie face and ' _Thank you for shopping with us!_ ' The few objects inside swayed as he sauntered, coming to a halt as he did. Better here in the hallway, twice as crowded despite the room around him, than in one of the offices or meeting rooms. The full audience, all the witnesses. "Place looks nice. Spring cleaning?"

Beelzebub's eyes narrowed at Crowley's general, polite smile. As if he didn't know, as if he'd ever admit it.

Not this spring, in fact well before the mint, and immediately before the bugs, Hell had been flooded and rinsed by the superheated waters humans used for their energy protection. Not the sludge they dumped into waterways, though Crowley'd been tempted, but he'd not wanted a more hellish Hell. Nor the water the humans steamed to spin their turbines for electricity, not when it was entirely self contained and he'd need to break enclosed systems to get at it. More or less entirely enclosed. Instead he just redirected the cooling water, the stuff they used to keep everything from overheating then shunted out to take the heat away. Some places found other uses for it, some dumped the sludge into it, but enough places just dumped it. They might've noticed, but if they cared they'd never have been dumping it like that anyway. Even if curious, they wouldn't report it and none would compare notes across countries and continents to discover how many of their power plants hadn't dumped hot water for a week or so. (There were enough different styles and cheats in place, Crowley hadn't really had to spread out so far; he just wanted as much superheated water as he could get. It wasn't Holy Water, but it was wet.)

Even if a demon's body didn't need to breath, it could be boil. The flies, and beetle and mold and anything else, he tossed after in feasted on the corporal leftovers, all that physical meat no longer possess-able. And, he'd bet, no one would dare swat a fly when they didn't know if it belonged to bad ol' Beelz.

What he'd give to learn if the angels fixed anything up to ensure the upstairs still worked. Couldn't have a major flood in the basement without affecting the entire office, but he'd no idea how literal the metaphor played out. He jerked his free hand up as he snapped, and all the demons, even Beelzebub, jerked away this time. A nearby pipe stopped dripping.

"I don't mind clutter," he adored Aziraphale's clutter, "but seems like it's not all fixed up yet. Maybe some windows?" He leaned back on his heels, scanning the ceiling. "Lights? They've got all kinds of ideas up there, the humans, about making basements livable. Anything for an excuse to up the price."

"Thiz is your doing," Beelzebub snarled at him.

"Mine? No idea what you mean." He waved his hand. "Unless you mean that you're all alive down here rather than dying on angels blades up top. You even tried me for that, found me guilty, dunked me in Holy Water to destroy me and everything, so I know you're blaming me for that one, and who am I to disagree with the mobs of Hell? Wouldn't dream of it." He gave a shrug and smiled charmingly, then tucked a loose lock of hair back behind his ear. Aziraphale tended to play with it and he liked the angel's fingers in his hair, so he wore it back but loose, and hadn't bothered anything more for this visit. Of course, he'd considered it, but he wanted Aziraphale to run his fingers through his hair afterward and it'd be quicker this way. Hell'd became wonderfully incidental to the rest of his life.

"What do you want?"

"I can't just come to visit? For old times sake?" Lifting his other arm, he let the bag swing, startling the closest demons, including Hastur, to stumble back. While Dagon stiffened, Beelzebub didn't move. "I brought a gift."

"No. What do you want, traitor?"

"Well, you see, that's just it, isn't it?" He twirled his hand taking in all of them. "We're all traitors, aren't we? Rebellious? Fallen angels? We followed Morning Star into battle against Heaven and All, didn't we? We're all traitors, aren't we?" In a place not known for the cold, he was on thin ice, but he'd not win if he didn't risk.

"Your point?"

"That's it, really, that's my point. I'm a traitor, but so are you, so are we all. Every last one of us down here, thrown out of Heaven and into the boiling sulfur pits of Hell, because we're traitors. Traitors to Heaven and didn’t get us much, did it?" He paused, though not long enough for Beelzebub to answer, not that they would again, arms crossed and glaring, the buzzing even faster around their head. "Now you're accusing me of being a traitor, as if that's a new thing. The only new thing about it is the epilogue." He paused, glancing around and catching the eyes of more than a few demons, in this minty smelling Hell, making obvious note of their clothes and disorganization before giving an idle tug to his very stylish and comfortable shirt.

"I don't recall any boiling pits of sulfur this time. I remember the trail, a' course, and the Holy Water that destroyed poor Usher, and Micheal so kindly providing a towel. I remember all that," he lowered his voice as he spoke, looking over his glasses and promising he'd never forget any of that. Really, he felt more vengeful for how Gabriel treated Aziraphale than how Beelzabub and the demons damned him, but no point in sharing that.

With a shrug, he dismissed his threat.

"Not very damning though, was it? Here I'm this big, bad 'new' traitor and, you might've missed it, but the punishment didn't really stick. I got everything I wanted. Armageddon canceled, you lot all leaving me alone up on Earth, an angel to share forever with... Do whatever I want, really. Way better than last time. Good ol' Lucifer didn't quite get that, did he? Didn't managed the winning, did he? The part you get what you want? Just dragged us all down here. You were right there at his side," he added to Beelzebub, sharing the blame with Dagon and Hastur as well. "This time around, he couldn't even control his own kid. Not that he's his kid anymore, just a human turning him down."

"You lied about the Antichrist!" Hastur snapped. "You were honored with delivering him and you lost him!"

"Did I?"

"You know damn well you did. You spent eleven years lying and sent the wrong boy to the Fields of Magadon."

"Terribly thoughtless of me, losing the Antichrist and sending the wrong boy to you," Crowley said in full agreement, in a tone no one would believe. "Imagine a demon, so specifically honored for his knowledge of humanity, being so thoughtless? I can't imagine. Terribly unprofessional of me." He finished with a smile, holding Hastur's black eyes with his own snake eyes. Three, or four, discorporations on, the Duke of Hell blinked first. "Hate to think the Antichrist grew up without Hell's, or Heaven's, influence, on his own, some place no one would think to look for him." Though Beelzebub didn't flinch away, they didn't hold Crowley's eyes and Dagon looked away before he caught hers. He didn't try to hold anyone else's, he just wanted them to see these three look away. "The Antichrist growing up with normal, everyday human parents? Sounds nothing like something I'd want. Obviously I lost track of him," he grinned, holding up an empty hand. "Very thoughtless of me."

"That waz not the gamble you zought," Beelzebub snapped, aware of the shifting power. One didn't stay the prince of hell for over six thousand without recognizing a challenger. Fortunately, for both of them, Crowley didn't want their title. "You intended the Antichrizt have Heaven'z touch az well az Hell'z. You worked with your angel." Though they spat the last word, they couldn't quite muster their harshest disgust against an angel who survived Hellfire.

"Ah, yes, we'd a decade playing house, didn't we?" he agreed, grinning as if recollecting a lark. "Reporting on poor Warlock. You know, the kid's grown up well, even after an angel and a demon taught him contradictory lessons. Weird streak of independence coupled with intense empathy. Confuses his father to no end, but he's got some brilliant tactics, and no respect, and yet he's really kind. Does a nanny and gardener proud. Still got a thing for black," he added, rubbing his chin. "That might be entirely on me." He could've continued rambling about Warlock, without really giving anything away, but Beelzebub stomped their foot.

"Enough! You were not playing a game! You didn't know where to find the real Antichrizt!"

Lips pressed together as he grinned, Crowley said nothing.

"You. Did. Not."

Since humans stepped out of the Garden, Hell credited him for all of their atrocities; they'd no idea what he could, or couldn't, do. But standing in Hell when he could be anywhere else didn't tempt, so he dropped the plastic bag, which didn't roll, onto the nearest oversized office desk and gave the old bow.

"Of course not, Lord Beelzebub. I would never. Anyway." He straightened, leaning back on long legs to survey the demons again. "Neither Armageddon failing or the traitor bit prompted my visit. Since Hell exists, and I exist, I hate to have us getting the wrong idea about each other."

"We have plenty of ideaz about you."

"That's just it," he agreed. "All this bickering, blame, wasting all this time going back and forth, when we could far more easily communicate as equals. Just learn to talk to each other, right? More or less," he granted, waving at nothing really. "Wouldn't want to put on airs or anything. Not down here, where swimming is so often in season."

Three equal glares from the dukes and prince, but he wouldn't accept Beelzebub, Hastur or Dagon even if they begged. Well, maybe if they begged, just for the novelty of hearing them beg. They were on stage right now, just like him, and though he did want a way to ensure they'd stay clear, his real audience listened, reading rumors to circulate among the ten thousand demons. Six thousand years without a Great War to end it or win it, the rest of the demons were stuck in their jobs for eternity. Most didn't have even a glimmer of imagination to consider it, but he didn't care about them. He wanted those who could, eventually, get far enough past dogma to actually be worth something in the humans' every changing world. Not this drivel of pain and torment, humans learned to live with that ages back, just ask Eve about the first childbirth, and the second.

"I'm thinking of starting a remote office, up on Earth," he continued, and quickly waved away the building they stood in. "Not like this, not another floor. By remote, I mean somewhere else. An independent office, like a franchise," which the humans beat him too only because he never would've believed they'd buy into it, "with less oversight. Significantly less. Maybe we'll do a company picnic or something, at a botanical garden or such." Someplace with carnivorous plants. He didn't want Beelzebub's title, but he didn't wish them well either.

"We find nothing funny in your humor."

"I'm not joking! Look!" From the plastic bag, he pulled out an iPhone, stale white, already loaded, and keyed to open to any demonic touch. He liked the apple on the back as much as its followers' fanaticism. The lock screen was a bunch of flies, and, instead of Siri, it responded to Sinner. Sinner listened even better than Siri. "You tap the screen and say 'Sinner, call Crowley' and then-"

"Calling Crowley," Siri said, well, Sinner but they'd the same voice. He'd grown bored of customizing it by the time he reached the voice options. A moment later, the phone in his pocket rang, and he pulled it out, wiggling it before he swiped to hang up. Most of them stared as if he'd preformed a miracle.

"See? Any time you want to talk. Well, any time I can answer, otherwise leave a message; I've got your number." Even if they smashed the phone as soon as he left, he'd hear the immediate reaction. Destroying it really was the only smart reaction to it, though they'd only do so for the wrong reasons, so he'd a good chance they'd keep it. Like the mint, it'd draw energy from the Hell itself; a regular battery wouldn't last the night down here.

"If you want to triumph over Heaven now," he continued, "you can't count on Armageddon and the last battle. The Great Plan was a red herring, a distraction from the ineffable plan. If you want to win, really win," he paused, his smile slender as he deepened and lowered his voice, "you're going to need to find a way to tip the balance. Earth isn't just the playing field, Earth is the greatest advantage you can get. Hell is nothing next to Heaven, but Heaven is far less than Earth. And you've only got one demon who's been up there the whole time. You want to win against Heaven, you're going to need a head start." Then he straightened, raising both hands.

"But! It's up to you. I don't especially get anything out of it, just a little more amusement to wind away the ages. After all, I already got what I wanted, didn't I? That's the whole traitor bit, when I definitely," he paused to tilt his head and wink at Beelzebub, "didn't know where the Antichrist was and, definitely, didn't ensure he grew up without Heavenly or Hellish influences. Definitely not. Definitely not me who has everything I want on Earth, right?"

"What about your angel?" Dagon asked. "What's he think of you starting up a..." When Beelzebub glared at her, she trailed off.

"Aziraphale thinks a hobby would do me good," he said, smiling back, then his smile turned dangerous, yellow eyes narrow. "Don't think we have trouble communicating, Dagon, Lord of the Files. Don't think any attempt to harm him won't be met with far deadlier retaliation. I've not come to play nice, I just want to see if anyone is interested in playing. 'Sides, he has his own hobbies. Any other questions?"

They said nothing, no one ready to speak over Beelzebub's glare. Not except Crowley, who didn't have to respect them anymore.

"Right, then, so there's the phone, if you want to talk. And here..." He reached into the bag and pulled out a bright yellow plastic toy with an orange beak. "It's name is Wahoo."

With a last wink, he left the rubber ducky, just a regular rubber duck, on the desk and walked out. The demons opened a path ahead of him and it closed behind him.

  
  


When the bell jingled, Aziraphale told himself not to glance around, to keep his eyes on the shopper who moved with deliberation. They knew what they wanted and intended to take one of his books from him. He needed to watch them, think of a way to discourage them and - he turned to the entrance before the door closed.

Splendid in black and red, his hair falling loose of the ponytail he pretended not to care about, and his smirk enough to brighten any room, Crowley sauntered in. Pressing his hand to his chest as the knot of worry unraveled, Aziraphale breathed easily for the first time since Crowley brought up the idea, and possibly for the first time at all since he left this morning.

"Thank goodness," he murmured, unable to move as Crowley crossed the space between them. "They didn't try to hurt you, did they? Threaten you?"

Wrinkling his nose, he shook his head to dismiss the possibility. "Naw. Told ya. They wouldn't come near me." Reaching Aziraphale, he looped an arm around him and, pulling his glasses off, buried his face in his neck, breathing deeply. "You're still up here, after all. Wouldn't dare touch me knowing you'd come get me."

"I most certainly am and most certainly would." He touched Crowley's face, trailing fingers down his check, but couldn't see his face clearly. "You're not hiding something from me, are you?"

"No, you smell good." With a last deep breath, he straightened, holding Aizraphale's eyes just a moment before hiding his eyes behind his sunglasses again. There were humans in the shop, after all, most of them polite enough to ignore the greeting. Not really caring about the humans, who couldn't buy anything unless he acknowledged them anyway, Aziraphale touched a kiss to Crowley's lips and sighed again, so glad he returned safely.

"Anyway," Crowley muttered a moment later, catching up with his own thoughts. "That's it, a start. We'll see what happens. I listened in on the ride back, lots of accusations, and they'd not destroyed the phone or duck yet, and the recording is still going. I'll like knowing what's going on down there." That'd been his main argument for heading down, the glaring absence of warning. While the better reason, Aziraphale rather suspected he just wanted a new way to bother Hell. Honestly, he was thrilled Crowley included the duck, even if they'd never know Aziraphale asked for it. It meant they did this together. "You know, Hell's smelling better than last time. Very minty. Best deal I ever made."

"The best?" Aziraphale repeated, raising his brows, not about to be replaced by a plant.

"You're not a deal, angel, you're a promise."


End file.
